


bravado

by Lirusen



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Character Death, Murder Mystery, POV Multiple, cop!seonghwa, idk how to use this site, no romance i think but im indecisive so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lirusen/pseuds/Lirusen
Summary: When he transfers to a new district, Park Seonghwa's first homicide case is that of the Mayor.
Kudos: 2





	1. ONE: TWO-FACED

#### 

PARK SEONGHWA.

#### 

MONDAY, 20TH OF MAY, 2019.

#### 

06:15

"Chivalry is dead," Park Seonghwa comments, frowning at the dead body huddled like a foetus at the bottom of the garbage. The repulsive stench of rotting trash wafts up to his nostrils, and he raises an arm to press a much nicer smelling beige overcoat to his nose. "Why go to all this effort to dump a body in the garbage of all places?"

"If you can't handle the smell of a trash can what makes you think you can handle a homicide?" Lee Yoobin, his new partner, says, stepping up beside him, shining a torch down. She shoves her phone into her jacket pocket.

"Don't forget, you were the one who called me here. You could have dragged along someone else who was doing the night shift with you, but instead you wake me up. I don't even have my badge." Seonghwa's stomach growls, joining him in protest. With the abnormal shift times that come with the job, he should be used to an irregular (and often unsatisfactory) diet, but somehow moving into a shabby old apartment on the outskirts of town usurps more energy than staying up until past dawn to scribble down paperwork.

In his opinion, his transfer from Seoul to this town was completely unnecessary - the crime rates are low, homicide especially. Other districts require his skills much more than this fairytale of a town (though he knows more than to be deceived by cardboard cutouts so easily), but even after objecting to his superior, Seonghwa had no choice but to shift his life from an impressive house to a small, damp box.

At least it makes his solitude less apparent.

Seonghwa steps down from the large garbage bin, pointing his own torch at the large walls looming over the pair either side of them. On his left, a door sunken into the wall indicates a back entrance to offices that spiral upwards in their multitudes to the sixteenth floor. The structure is a startling masterpiece combining glass and steel and brick, and Seonghwa remembers how the front of it glistens against the glares of a thousand artificial lights.

To his right, there are a few doors leading to the kitchen of restaurant, and a residence no longer in use. Slivers of daylight cheekily peek in from the front, illuminating the numerous cars speeding by and the other office building across.

In total, there are four identical bins, each reaching Seonghwa's shoulders in height. Two are behind him at the back of the alley, leaning against a sturdy metal fence upon which one could climb and run down the rest of the path. One of those bins conceals the corpse. 

The other two belong presumably to the restaurant, pushed against the right wall. Leftover food drips from the rims of the bin, spilling onto the floor. Ironically, it's the only thing that provides any colour in this drab crime scene, bursts of autumn-like colours among black and cobblestone grey.

The alley itself must be at least ten metres wide, and many more metres in length. Trash is scattered across in clumps, concentrated more on the right side.

And above all, there are no surveillance cameras.

Seonghwa exhales deeply, glancing at his watch. He shifts his weight onto one leg. "Where's the medical examiner and the rest of them?" A slight chill runs through the air this morning, and he would like nothing more than to go home and sleep.

"On the way. Anyway, I think we have a bigger problem than your queasiness, Park."

"What have you found?" Seonghwa asks, neither admitting nor denying the allegation. He approaches Yoobin, who has perplexity and alarm etched all over her face as she peers into the bin. She doesn't answer. "Lee?"

"I think this is the mayor."

Seonghwa pauses. He half expects a sudden grin to bloom on Yoobin's face as she reveals the prank, but the detective is not the type. "What?"

Against his better wishes (and his stomach, although empty), he steps up on the ledge and comes face to face with the contorted figure once again. White scuffs his navy business suit, the blazer pulled back to reveal dried blood staining the pale shirt around the stomach. Tendrils of landfill curl around the body, obscuring his features, but the effects of decomposition are clear on his skin, a marble-like pattern disrupting his already pallid skin. But despite the smell, the body doesn't seem to have reached the putrefaction stage.

It's a futile effort attempting to discern the face, Seonghwa realises, since he's not even entirely sure what the Mayor looks like. Sure, he did his research before arriving in town, reading up on the mayor who hid corruption under layers of righteousness, but he didn't think committing another clean-shaven face to memory would make the shifts worthwhile.

"How can you tell it's him for sure?" His eyes skim the manicured fingers peeking out from the behind the leather briefcase that's been tossed onto the figure. The other hand is sandwiched between him and the wall of the bin, an intricate watch bound around the wrist.

"Look at the cufflink." Yoobin directs the beam to just above the wristwatch. A shirt sleeve slips from beneath the blazer, revealing a circular piece of a silver-like metal pinned onto the pale fabric, dotted with reds and greens.

It looks eerily like a Christmas decoration.

"The mayor owns two pairs of bespoke cufflinks," Yoobin continues. "You can see them both in recent press release photos. He wears them all the time." She nods at the glinting metal with certainty.

"And I guess with cufflinks like those, no one can forget who they belong to," Seonghwa mutters, ignoring the look Yoobin gives him. He breathes out as he raises his head, unable to stand the pungent stench for much longer. "We should wait until the medical examiner gets here before making any assumptions. For all we know, the victim could just be an office employee with an admiration for the mayor or at least shares his taste in style."

Yoobin shines the torch in Seonghwa's face, unfazed by his cursing as he blocks the light with his hands. She focuses the beam at the office building to their right, and approaches it.

"What exactly did the tip say?" Seonghwa asks, trailing behind.

Only an hour and a half ago, Seonghwa woke up to his phone going off. Naturally, he declined the call from the unknown number, but even the desire of an extra hour in bed couldn't deter the resilience of the caller.

It took ten missed calls for Seonghwa to pick up.

After Lee Yoobin identified herself as his new partner (a name he already knew prior to the transfer), she rambled on about an anonymous tip calling her merely minutes ago, hinting at some kind of suspicious activity. 

Now, Seonghwa could've pulled the I-legally-don't-begin-work-until-tomorrow card, because, frankly, he was tired, and some part of his brain speculated that this was a prank call. But he didn't join the police for the shitty salary, and a guilty conscience can prove to be very effective in this line of work (a lane he doesn't want to traipse down at such a young age), so he agreed to meet her at the location.

Unfortunately, Seonghwa still doesn't know where the fuck everything is in this town, and the GPS refused to cooperate, so what should've taken twenty minutes resulted in almost an hour's drive.

By the time he arrived partially in his pyjamas (he had the magnificent foresight to only slip on some jeans), Yoobin had barely spared him a greeting before showing him the body.

"The tip gave me the location of both of these buildings," Yoobin reveals. "He said 'there might be a dead body here'. He was panicked, and he was breathing heavily, but his voice was still fairly stable. I could hear traffic in the background clearly"— Yoobin glances at the road —"so the tip was a passerby. He may have been an employee at either building coming into work." She lifts a finger down the alley.

"Where did you get the call from?"

Yoobin furrows her eyebrows, glimpsing back at her partner. "What?"

"Where did you receive the call? Was it at your desk? Why didn't the tip call the emergency services instead? There would have been a quicker response, and we're losing every valuable moment to be able to examine the body." He switches off his torch and shoves it back into his pocket. "When there's a crime, it's uusually the person's first response to call the police, but you aren't a dispatcher."

Yoobin raises an eyebrow. "I thought that me calling it a 'tip' was enough indication I was called at my desk. But, yeah, I've been wondering that as well. I've given out my card to many people over the years, so I'm guessing the tip is one of those."

Seonghwa hums in response. "This building belongs to XYS Industries, right?" Seonghwa waves a hand to the office building in front of them. He's done minimal research on the location before setting off in his car, but he can progress with the formalities later. Preferably tomorrow, when he officially starts work.

"As the three big letters at the front imply, yes, it does," Yoobin responds sardonically, but before Seonghwa can retort a response, her expression shifts to one of realisation. "I think I know where our first port of call will be."

"Explain."

"For the mayor, being a businessman came before being the role he was elected for." She turns to Seonghwa. "And he was quite close with the CEO of XYS Industries. They've done some business together."

He exhales. "And you're already referring to the mayor in the past tense. At least wait until we have a positive identification before we barge in and demand an appointment."


	2. TWO: LIKE SON, LIKE SON

#### CHOI SAN.

#### MONDAY, 20TH OF MAY, 2019.

#### 06:16

San groans, bright, burning rays of sunlight piercing through his eyelids as though they are white-hot knives, inflicting pain upon his head. He flings his right hand over his face idly, blocking out the sunbeams enough for him to relax a little.

But stiffness has set into his limbs, his bones protesting as he shifts the slightest. His body, for some reason, isn't sunken into the welcoming depths of his own bed in his own apartment, and the hardness of the surface beneath him agonises his back and shoulders too much for whatever he's lying on to be even considered a mattress. He twists himself onto his side in an attempt to find a more favourable position so he can return to the calm refuge of his dreams, but it's too late -- he's already awake.

San groans again in annoyance, curling his body while he, with reluctance, lets his senses (omitting sight, of course) hone into his surroundings. The soft, rhythmic swish of a broom to his left is somewhat calming, but sounds so close that he squirms away like a child.

"Seems like you're finally awake, then, hmm?"

San doesn't really recognise the male voice, but it seems familiar enough, so he grumbles an incoherent reply that sounds eerily similar to a 'fuck off'.

The guy laughs, and San winces at the sharp noise, burying his face further into his body. "Well, you'd better get up from the floor or I'll whack you with this broom. Even better, I'll sweep you up with the rest of the trash."

San scowls as he finally opens his eyes and peeks over his shoulder to meet the mischievous ones of Jung Wooyoung, who leers down at him holding a broom dangerously close to the former's face.

Too tired and pained to express any sort of emotion, San gives the younger a flat look. In his mind, however, he's vaguely surprised that this happens to be the most he's ever interacted (if a question, a curse and then two threats could be counted as such) with his younger brother's best friend. Hell, this encounter was probably longer than all the times he bothered to say hello to his own brother in the past five years.

But then Choi San's brain feels like it's been impaled by a spear, and he's brought back down to Earth.

He sits up slowly, careful to not nauseate himself any further, and comes face to face with a marble floor. San's already realised he's not in his own apartment by now, but he fails to betray his shock at the sight of grey and white swirling and breaking into each other, a milky, opaque pool that teases its most darkest secrets through the faults. Already used to standing on the ultimate showcase of dirty money one must have, San should be acting more like the mayor's son, but when his brain has waged a war on itself and cursed him a hangover, it seems the deceiving mirage beneath won't fail to entrance him.

Though perhaps being away at university for his first year, immersed within a diverse environment, has finally welded shut the need for splendour his father had tried so hard to etch into him his whole childhood.

He raises his head to find other adolescents slumped around the room -- more than a few are cuddling together on the couch and on the verge of tumbling onto stone, someone is tucked into themselves on the coffee table, and a couple of others claim the floor as their mattress, like San.

"What the hell happened here?"

Wooyoung continues sweeping the floor, empty bottles and cans rattling as he does so. "A party, what else?"

"Well, yeah, but I barely know anyone here." And the people he does know, are either from the school he used to attend, or people from university that he's never spoken to before. "Why am I here?"

"Does anyone go to parties for any other reason but to forget and have fun?" Wooyoung reasons, spraying some kind of lavender air freshener over the entanglement of limbs on the couch.

"Yeah. Take you for example, being designated cleaner."

Wooyoung shrugs. "It's my sister's house. I think she goes to your university. She holds these parties pretty often, and I help her clean up afterwards because it's on both of us if our parents come home to the stench of alcohol."

It's then that San notices Wooyoung's attire, and his eyes narrow in on the black satin button up hanging off the latter's shoulders with a rip (that looks a little fashionable but also completely ridiculous) down his right side. "Aren't you a... uh, senior in high school?" San wants to slap himself for not actually recalling what year his younger brother Jongho -- and therefore also his best friend -- is in, and it demonstrates just how out of touch he's become with his entire family; he was closest to Jongho regarding family members throughout his teen years, but the pair barely spoke to begin with.

"I see you can't even remember what grade your brother is in," Wooyoung snorts. "We're juniors."

San ignores the crimson shade of his shame rising up his neck. "Senior or junior, you're still both minors. You have your college exam to study for but you waste your time on destroying your liver." His words bleed hypocrisy, but San could care less.

Narrowing his eyes, Wooyoung sweeps away the rubbish, but with more aggression. "I'm not going to get my childhood back again, but instead I have to waste it on something that will decide my entire future. What's the problem if I want to go crazy for once and relax without giving a damn?"

And San really wants to retaliate back at that, snap at Wooyoung so the younger's mind and his body don't waste away into slivers of decaying flesh and fading memories with neglect and regret like his has. San abided by that same rule in high school, rioting under the pretense that it is okay to untangle oneself completely because it's entirely possible to pull back everything together and remember where all the threads were knotted-

What a lie.

But he doesn't yell at Wooyoung.

"Be careful," he says instead, his voice monotone. He blames his lack of response on his hangover.

Wooyoung pauses sweeping, an unsettling silence coming to fill in the sudden absence of rattles of cans and bottles. And then, a few seconds later, he resumes, though at a slower pace.

San pats down his figure for his car keys, only to narrow his eyes at his own attire.

Because San doesn't ever recall deciding to wear a sheer black shirt that clearly displays his torso while loosely tucked into obsidian ripped jeans, and accidentally rubbing his face leaves his fingers covered in shimmery black eyeshadow, clear gloss and whatever the hell else he put on his face.

Now that he thinks about it, the night in question only returns to him in short snippets -- he remembers seeing Jongho and Wooyoung wreaking havoc with a few other friends, and his own mates trying to drag him into the centre to dance. He's also pretty sure that at one point, he was in the kitchen drunk and crying like the sad person he is.

"If you're looking for your car keys, don't bother because Jongho took them from you saying you wouldn't mind if he took your car to school." Wooyoung's voice bounces off the walls of the living room as he leaves.

"What?" The look on San's face is incredulous as he scrambles to his feet and attempts to run after Wooyoung, just in time for the debilitating nausea to hit him. He stumbles for a good few seconds, and staggers after the disappearing figure. "What do you mean he took my keys?"

"He took your car as well," Wooyoung affirms, not that San needs him to. He grabs a water bottle from the dining table and a bottle of painkillers and tosses them to San, who, still disoriented, drops them. "He had to go to school early to prepare for his speech. You know, for school president."

"School preside- of course," San mutters to himself. His brother had always been the extrovert, oozing with confidence (read: arrogance) and San's sure that with time, a desire for power will develop as well. Jongho takes after their ambitious father, the mayor of a town that's big enough to be a city. 

"Well, you look like you're going to punch a wall -- I suggest you don't, you look like crap as it is -- but I should be getting ready for school." A clack sounds as Wooyoung leans the broom against the table.

"There are still people around the house, you know."

Wooyoung shrugs. "I've done the worst. My sister should be back within the next couple of hours." He exhales. "Well, I had an unpleasant time talking to you. Let's hope we never meet again."

San dunks a couple of pills into his hand. "I hope so too." He swallows them dry.

Silence engulfs the nineteen-year old when the younger leaves (presumably to his room, but San never sees him again), and he threads his fingers through his blonde dyed hair, gritting his teeth at his head pulsating. A glance at his phone (which loses battery straight after) reveals it's only half past six in the morning, and so San embarks on a long journey back to his apartment after quickly tidying himself up when none of his friends seem to be around. He'll get his car from Jongho when the latter finishes normal school and begins cram school.

However, right before he can fall onto his own bed at nine o'clock after taking a warm shower, his phone bellows out its obnoxious ringtone, having received a call from an unknown number.


	3. THREE: STUDY, SELL, REPEAT

#### JUNG YUNHO.

#### MONDAY, 20TH MAY, 2019.

#### 07:32

Yunho feels lethargic. His movements have been sluggish the entire morning, causing him to almost knock over his mug of coffee from the counter had he not reacted in time. He doesn't have a lecture today, so he's taking over the shop until one of his other colleagues starts her shift come afternoon.

Needless to say, he's quite bored.

Being in a fairly busy area, especially during rush hour (the noise of traffic can serve as a good literal wake-up call), it's pretty often that a person will barge in with gasping breaths, having forgotten to buy a gift for a loved one. Sometimes in the later afternoon, a child or two will tumble along under the struggling grasp of their parents, eager to swallow entire carnations whole.

Today is different, however. Even though the walls, already brushed with warm yellow paint, are softly illuminated by the sun's rays that peek out from behind a building, some kind of emptiness lingers in between the aisles, drawing out the life of once vibrant flowers -- they seem dull this morning. Yunho's sure the feeling wasn't there yesterday, but it doesn't have that feel of being recent or new. Rather, it's a deja-vu type of dull ache that settles within the stems and petals and even his bones, and yet he cannot get to the root of it. 

The twenty-one year old is too scared to look at today's date as a consequence, so he returns to the pile of notes on the counter, attempting to study until someone enters. It's only eight in the morning, but usually a few people tumble in by now. Perhaps the dreary atmosphere repels any passers by. 

It's not for another half an hour that the bell above the door rings, and the click clack of heels on tiled flooring capture Yunho's attention.

He raises his head from the wad of paper before him, meets the steeled eyes of an aged woman standing right in front of him, and hurriedly straightens his posture. And as per usual, he assumes the warm-hearted smile often seen at work, concealing his fatigue. He often wonders if there's really any point in wasting energy in such a small thing that he has to repeat all the time. Yunho has many smiles for many occasions, but only a few actually warrant himself happiness (contrary to the countless articles he's seen that claim it convinces one to be genuinely content).

But the old lady opposite him is intimidating with her beady eyes, so he'll smile this time around.

"It was my granddaughter's birthday yesterday and I couldn't get her anything," she begins, and her voice is surprisingly gentle. "I'd like a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, please."

Yunho goes about completing her order, almost completely relying on muscle memory, because his mind has drifted back to nowhere in particular. The smile is stuck on his face, but the friendly conversation of the old woman soon draws him back to the present.

"I don't know if I'm too late, because it's already the twentieth of May," she continues, counting her money while Yunho stands behind the counter again, but the latter has no idea what she's talking about. "But better to give these to her now than to wait until next year, yes?" She's probably referring to the flowers and her granddaughter.

"Yes, ma'am. Always better late than never." Yunho takes the money, and doesn't end up needing to calculate the change.

The woman greets him farewell, and leaves the man once again in his own world as though she'd never entered it.

Yunho passes a disdained look to the pile of notes with coloured ballpoint pen scrawled over, and he gives up on studying for the day (although it's not even nine o'clock yet). A lot of the time, he wonders if he's being ungrateful -- without his parents' money to start it all off a year ago, the flower shop would be difficult to keep open and maintain it to the standard that it is now. His university fees are paid with their help as well, and it's lured Yunho into a false sense of responsibility and that all he needs to do in order to be an adult is stand among flowers while studying for a degree without any hindrances.

And every time he considers this, Yunho tries -- he really does -- to tear himself away from that spoiled lifestyle he's grown up with, from the 'it's okay's from his parents over the phone as they send him a cheque every month. But every time, his whole body falls slack in defeat, and he resumes living comfortably off his parents' wealth feeling like he has little semblance of what adulthood is truly like.

Maybe that's why he specifically chose to start up a flower shop. An eternal witness filled to the brim with mortal attempts of joy, consolation and rememberance.

He saunters up to the front door and pulls it open, welcomed by the morning wind's fingers tickling and caressing his face. Nevertheless, that ache seems to follow him wherever he goes and won't disappear any time soon, so Yunho can't fully appreciate the morning. He really wishes there were more people around, friend or customer, to help fill the emptiness of the shop.

He looks back at the aisle in the shop where a few white chrysanthemums used to be, and recalls the one-sided conversation with the old woman.

His moment of peace is disrupted by the vibration of his phone in his pocket, alerting him of a news update.


	4. FOUR: FALL AWAY ON A SIGH.

#### CHOI JONGHO.

#### MONDAY, 20TH MAY, 2019.

#### 07:46

Jongho finds exhilaration in standing in front of a crowd, letting words flow from his lips like liquid amber while that rush of adrenaline in his blood vessels keeps his heart pulsing erratically. There are way too many people willing to lean forward on the edge of their seats and let him pretend to unravel the knotted mess of their minds, even if they know as much as he does that there's no point in this entire election.

Still. He'll take what he can get.

The aftermath of his speech hits him all too suddenly as he confines himself to the right side of the classroom, four rows from the back, and unable to control his bouncing right leg. His right hand quivers everytime he lifts it from the lined page to skim over his new ideas for extending his lead in the race to be school president. 

A smile tugs on the corners of his lips, but Jongho prides himself on the self-control he has over his facial expressions. Nevertheless, he doesn't account for the inevitable hangover from last night's party wreaking havoc on his brain, and he has to dig his hand into his bag to find painkillers and a bottle of water.

A backpack is thrown onto the floor next to his feet, and a dishevelled Wooyoung slumps into the free seat next to him.

"Two weeks," his best friend groans, closing his eyes as he leans back in his chair. The school day has yet to begin, so the teacher isn't in for homeroom and students are still piling in. "Two damn weeks and I won't have to hear about this election anymore."

Jongho snorts. "Why are you so tired? You're not the one running for school president."

Wooyoung opens an eye and peeks at him. "School being the key word. You need to relax, Jongho, it's just a school election; not that big of a deal. Anyway, it's impossible for you to lose something like this." He stretches his limbs in his seat, reminding Jongho of a cat -- his best friend seems to have the agility of a feline, usually very lithe in his movements. 

It makes him stand out when dancing with his dance group. In all his performances, Jongho has noticed how weightless Wooyoung appears as he glides through air with immense control over his body. However, Jongho knows Wooyoung will never be able to pursue it as a career, too bound by the honour and reputation of his family.

Today, however, Wooyoung resembles nothing short of a mess, his shirt untucked and his tie loosely hanging over his shoulders down his front, left undone. It's a miracle no teacher has reprimanded him so far, but this is Jung Wooyoung, the seventeen-year-old teenager who loves the thrill of rebellion and can escape almost any teacher with honeyed excuses dripping from his tongue.

(He does get into trouble, eventually, but Wooyoung chooses not to dwell on the consequences.)

Jongho himself has often had a taste of Wooyoung's definition of ecstasy in the form of late night parties (especially last academic year), but he's been holding himself back recently -- he really needs to keep his head down in his studies for the next couple of years.

But it doesn't mean he won't loosen up every now and then.

Wooyoung snatches Jongho's bottle from their desk and gulps the water down greedily, while Jongho scoffs at his friend's lack of manners.

"How much did you drink last night?" he asks, grabbing the bottle as soon as Wooyoung's done with it.

"No more than you. Fuck," he grumbles, leaning forward in his chair and resting his forehead on his desk. A moment later, he looks back at Jongho. "I saw your brother this morning when I was cleaning up. I told him you took his car."

"How'd he seem?"

"More than pissed. I don't blame him. It's not like you two are the closest of siblings."

Jongho shrugs. He never took favours from his brother, and doesn't consider this to be one, either. He'll drive it around to his apartment after school. "I needed to get to school early. I would've asked your sister but she disappeared sometime between me passing out and waking up."

Wooyoung is quiet for a minute. "Probably found another hook-up for the night." He sighs. "First year of university, and she's not the person I knew who stayed up every night to study for that stupid college exam."

"You haven't even started university and I'm struggling to spot the difference between you two," Jongho quips, but to no response.

A moment's silence. They both stare at nothing in particular, and Jongho knows they're both dwelling on the same question - how much does life change after high school? How much does life depend on the gruelling eight hour exam at the end of high school? Wooyoung's sister evidently isn't completely representative, but still an example. But Wooyoung never wants to linger on the future, so it's fitting that he's the one to change the subject.

"How was herding everyone this morning?" he jokes, a lazy smile on his face. "How many students cried because of you?"

"None," Jongho says, a little snappier than intended. Maybe it's the effect of the hangover, the fact that all morning he has had to order around sophomores who don't know what buttons to press on the damn printer after stealing his brother's keys from his pocket at five in the morning, and that a few hours later, he'd barely finished everything successfully.

(He has made a few students cry in the past, however.)

Wooyoung is unfazed bar from a small pause in his movement, although he has been long used to Jongho's snappy behaviour.

Jongho clears his throat, forcing his muscles to relax. "Stressful morning," he says anyway, as though those two words serve well enough as an apology. "Shouldn't have gone to that party last night," he adds as an afterthought.

Wooyoung scoffs playfully, and everything is back to normal. "I can see it as plain as the hangover killing you that you don't regret going." He slumps back onto his desk, remaining still bar the slow heave of his back as he breathes.

And, unfortunately, Wooyoung is right.

Silence settles across everyone as the teacher calls out attendance. Wooyoung lifts his head an inch to loudly but incoherently announce his presence. Jongho is a little more refined, clasping his hands together. The giddyness of the speech has not entirely worn off. Towards the end of the roll call, the door opens and another teacher strolls in donning an apologetic grimace.

"Apologies. The school principal asks for Choi Jongho to come to his office, please."

A hush descends over the class. Announcements are rarely surprising, though often treated more as an inconvenience.

But almost no one is ever called into the principal's office.

Principal Min rarely ventures from behind his desk, scribbling away his life in documents and praised by a ten-year-old, tight-lipped smile on the school website with an exhausting, exhaustive list of achievements below that have built the foundation of the school.

But it isn't so much the mention of the official than the word following it in combination that lightning strikes each pupil, paralysing their limbs and their tongue. Though the school is nothing without him, any event the principal has come to see has only emphasised students' impressions of him being a tedious old man who speaks and dresses in monotone.

It is the fact that not even the richest parents in this private school can snatch an appointment in his office which is both admirable and unnerving, and those few students with the misfortune of being called into it have never stepped out with a smile or a sigh of relief (rather with a letter in their trembling hands notifying an expulsion from school).

Jongho, like all the other students, remains stiffened in his seat. He should be ashamed of this sudden display of vulnerability, but he couldn't care less at the moment.

Wooyoung taps him on the foot with his own.

The sudden human contact jolts him from his trance, and Jongho stands and heads towards the door, following the teacher outside. She's silent as they amble down winding corridors, the soft patter of their own footsteps keeping them company.

The boy doesn't fiddle with the hem of his blazer or chew his bottom lip despite his hammering heart and twisting guts. The teacher offers no indication as to why he's suddenly being brought out of class to traipse down dimly lit hallways that are countless shades of an ominous grey under the dull yellow wash of overhead lights.

What seems like hours later, Jongho is finally left alone at the door of the principal's office. As he poises his fist over the frosted glass set into the oak frame, he hesitates. Then he knocks twice, in quick succession, and enters.

It interrupts the principal, scribbling on a collection of documents at his desk, who looks up.

If he has to be honest, Jongho expects the office to resemble a Victorian study out of a 1950's novel -- a fireplace on the left, or maybe elegant wooden panelling bordering the room in the most alluring shade of mahogany to match with the wide desk in the centre. Instead, the walls are a titanium white, a contrast to the black glass atop the charcoal wooden desk. The tall filing cabinets are tucked away in a corner, their dull grey shade rendering them a nearly invisible presence in the room.

Jongho bows and greets the principal, and the latter gestures to the seat in front of the desk. "Good morning, Jongho. Sit down."

Treading on the carpet without making a sound, Jongho slides himself into the leather chair, interlocking his fingers in his lap. His eyes wander to the piles of paper on the desk, each piece not creased or curved in the slightest but meticulously stacked on top of each other, as though a new block of printer paper has just been opened.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, but I'll let you know beforehand that the school will support you however you need, Jongho. Just making sure you know that." False promises, because everyone knows Choi Jongho has enough money to keep himself happy. Perhaps this is why the principal stays behind the protection of his desk - it is more difficult to lie face to face.

Jongho nods once.

The principal exhales, as though the news will affect him more. "I'm afraid to say that your father was found dead this morning. He was stabbed."


	5. FIVE: OVER THE WAVES

#### 

PARK SOOMI.

#### 

MONDAY, 20TH OF MAY, 2019.

#### 

13:10

"Shit," Park Soomi mutters to her right, lifting up her tray of food so it doesn't spill as she staggers to her left, narrowly missing her classmates in the queue. Her shoulder throbs for a moment from the sudden collision, before all that's left is a twinge of irritation. She turns to the fellow student who's already regaining his balance from the clash and making his way to the end of the line, offering her only the back of his head.

Rolling her eyes, Soomi ignores the overly inquisitive stares of bystanders and makes her way to a familiar table, but she makes sure to take her time strolling as she glances back at the queue. She's not the type to hold a grudge over something so trivial, but in her defense, she did almost drop her food. 

Her eyes snag on the familiar mop of dark brown hair, and her gaze lowers to find eyes of a similar shade, though spaced out.

Jung Wooyoung.

A person she only knows by name and by face, Soomi is vaguely surprised the junior isn't donning his familiar mischievous smile.

"Excuse me." A student slithers past Soomi, avoiding her tray by barely an inch. She stumbles back, suddenly aware of her awkward position in the middle of the canteen, and trots towards an empty space at a table only metres away.

"Hey," she greets, sliding into the seat opposite her friend, who's giving no mercy to the sheet of homework he's scrawling on. "Glad to see you're eating on time, as per usual," she says, nodding to the abandoned tray of food on the side, the last whisps of steam curling up.

"Feel free to have it," Kim Hongjoong offers, taking out yet another sheet from his notebook. His black hair, which is of a generous thickness, shrouds his face, having grown past his ears. Strands stick up all over his head as though a balloon has been rubbed against it to create static electricity, the effect mimicked by his fingers threading through it multiple times. 

He's taken his blazer off, as have most students in the stifling heat of the canteen. The air conditioners in the canteen broke this morning, leaving everyone to suffocate in the combined body heat of a thousand students. 

His tie is loosened and flung over his shoulder, appearing even more ridiculous when Soomi notices the dried, crusty orange stain below the breast pocket of his white shirt. What kind of stain, she can't guess. He probably hasn't even noticed it yet.

Soomi shoves a spoon of rice into her mouth. "Be glad I have a little bit of a conscience, or I would have," she says after swallowing. She slides the tray so the corner of the plastic nudges Hongjoong's left arm. "Eat. You can do your homework later."

"Can't," he says, moving his arm away. He then runs the fingers of the same hand through his hair, and Soomi knows he'll go bald soon. "This is due next and I really don't want the school to call my parents again."

There's a playful lilt to Hongjoong's tone, but it's not enough to soften the hard edge to it. Soomi knows of the troubled waters between him and his parents, crashing waves raised by the vibrations of Hongjoong's much-loved music. Such a love means he averages three, four hours of sleep per night, biding the time giving into creativity (something that gives too much freedom) and barely maintaining his spot as one of the top students in the year.

As Soomi munches on her lunch, she refrains from offering him any help (and not just with homework).

Hongjoong, like her, has pride. Accepting any sort of aid would prove that he's incapable of juggling composing music and studies, show just how vulnerable he can be, a contrast from the amiable acquaintance everyone looks to in times of dire need. He just needs to keep this up until the college entrance exam is over in November, then perhaps he will be able to freely breathe music without his parents breathing down his neck.

If he gives in now, he will have nothing worth giving up in the future.

And while their classmates are respectful to each other, Daneung High School is a race where weakness is stigmatised by tightening ropes of rumours and chased into the ground by those who'll do anything for a glimpse of the gold medal.

Everyone likes Kim Hongjoong, but like everyone else here, they can and will survive without him.

Soomi considers their school to be a little less dramatic than that, because even money's influence can't separate black and white, and she sometimes enjoys the company of her classmates. In the end, they're all teenagers refusing to succumb to pressure and (usually) trying to make best of the collective stress they all suffer under, and if she tiptoes around everyone constantly she'll graduate without both her sanity and her toes. Nevertheless, it doesn't harm to stand a respectable distance away from them at times.

As an observer, Soomi knows Hongjoong is slowly approaching the end of his tether, and that if Hongjoong is afraid of anything more than anyone noticing his weakness, it's the fact that he'll definitely say yes if they offer help.

"I can feel you staring at me," Hongjoong mutters, still writing. "It's getting a bit creepy."

She scoffs, finishing off her soup. "Your speech today was good," she says, changing the subject.

And if his current responsibilities weren't enough, a couple of months ago, the senior took it upon himself to participate in the race for school president. A spontaneous decision, and Soomi still questions his mental capacity (or lack thereof).

Of course, he's made it to the final with three others, including the mayor's son Choi Jongho, although the latter is only a junior.

Hongjoong will have his final speech in exactly a week's time, after which the voting process commences. It's a comically serious ritual the school delves in annually to the point it will invest in security to guarantee the validity of the votes. Personally, Soomi finds no point in imitating democracy when it brings no change to the school system, so for the past few years she's never signed her ballot. Whether or not Hongjoong expects her to vote for him by lieu of being friends, she doesn't really care.

"Thanks."

Soomi almost doesn't hear it. "Are you prepared for the final next week?"

Hongjoong snorts. "Am I ever?"

Truthfully, Soomi can't predict who'll win this year. There's an air of humility and welcoming surrounding him that makes Hongjoong the easier candidate to strike up a conversation with at any time, but there's clearly something about Jongho's determination and practicality set deep into his tight-lipped smile that might just edge him further ahead in the race.

"You're practically a fucking wizard, Joong. A fairy, even, I can imagine you with wings and cotton candy hair making Pennywise's dance look cute."

Hongjoong raises his head slowly, thinly veiling his bewilderment. "That's a compliment, right?"

Her eyes rake over his slightly greasy hair, crumpled uniform, and the darkening bags sagging under his eyes.

A stretch, if anything.

"If you want it to be." She points to his tray. "Are you really not going to eat your lunch?"

He shakes his head. She shrugs as she takes the food.

"You're still coming over after school today?" Hongjoong reaffirms, receiving a nod in response. "I've got this new track I've been working onoop for the past month." For the first time today, the hint of a smile flickers across his chapped lips.

"Are you going to send it to that company you were chasing down?" Soomi grabs her hydroflask, unscrewing the lid and downing the contents, washing down her food. She enjoys listening to music occasionally, including Hongjoong's, but she generally can't understand his almost-obsession for vibrating air. Nevertheless, it brings him joy. 

"Maybe. It's one of my better works, definitely, but this company has high expectations. If this isn't good enough for them, I'll have probably blown my chance of ever being able to produce with them." He shrugs, but Soomi can spot the doubt in his voice.

"Good thing there's other companies, right?" she reassures. Even if she's also one of the top students in the year, her judgement is all over the place when it comes to evaluating music. Whether Hongjoong can actually compose, she has no idea. But he's smart as fuck, so he probably can. "You'll get there in the end, Joong. You always do."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Including good things. If you keep on doubting yourself, your worst dreams might actually come true."

Hongjoong sighs heavily, and responds, but Soomi can't hear him. A nearby table has collapsed into raucour, their phones out although it's strictly against school rules. Their hands are clasped to their mouths as they murmur to each other, prompting other tables to check their phones.

Soomi puts a finger to her ear, irritated by the sudden noise. Her face must look comedic, because when she turns back to Hongjoong, he stifles a giggle under his hand as he looks at her.

Scowling, she takes his pen, discarded on the side, and flicks it at him, missing his face and hitting his chest quite pathetically instead.

Their own table erupts into loud whispers, sneaking out electronic devices and pushing their faux metal trays to one side. Frowning at the commotion, Soomi raises an eyebrow when Hongjoong leans forward and takes the chopsticks from what was once his tray, and he snatches one of the last few pieces of tteokbokki.

"Oh, so now you're hungry," she drawls. If the lunch had originally belonged to her, she would've smacked the rice cake out of his grasp.

He raises a shoulder, cheeky smile before he eats it.

Soomi shakes her head, grimacing. She looks over to a fellow classmate to the side on her phone, chatting animatedly with her own friends. "Jihyo-ah," she calls, capturing the attention of the girl. "What's going on?" She could take her own phone out to check, but she's lazy.

"Haven't you heard yet?" Jihyo stares at her with wide eyes.

"...I wouldn't be asking you if I had."

Jihyo waves her off. "Choi Jongho got called into the principal's office this morning and he hasn't come back to class, apparently."

"He hasn't been expelled, hasn't he?" interjects Hongjoong, still sneaking tteokbokki from the tray.

Soomi snorts. "What would he be expelled for? Doing too well in the student election?"

Jihyo shakes her head. "This is the news." The fellow pupil shows Soomi the screen of her phone, a bold headline running across the width of it. The time stamp reads 11:54. "It's his father, the Mayor. He's been murdered."


End file.
